2014.07.18

How to read a tide table, and why. How black, the sky. How bright, the stars. How incorrigibly insatiable, the skeeters. Also: how to nudge, rub, noodge, press, influence, impact, and otherwise not-scratch-to-smithereens bug bites.

How to wash and dry dishes by hand, meal after meal, drink after drink, day after day. And cajole/coax/command children to do the same. How not to catch a crab. (OUCH.) Lobstah love.

The giddy high of finishing four books in two weeks. The grump of trying and failing to find a geocache. Also, the thrill of the multi-state success. The soft grit of sand between your toes. And teeth. And you and every last inch of your car.

D&D. It's been three-plus decades. I didn't love it, then. But this time around, I share a roof (and a genepool) with an aspiring (and dear to me) dungeon master. I'm in.

How to eradicate routine. Elude bedtime. Omit vegetables for entire meals. How to sink. How to swim.

How to build a fairy house. (Clue: with whatever's at hand. Though if you happen to find yourself here, what's at hand might be especially grand.) That gardening callouses do not matter one whit, when it comes to kayaking. That tender pink blisters notwithstanding, you'll go out again in a heartbeat, anyway. The swimmy freedom of not knowing the hour. Or day. Or date. Or very temporarily, why it matters.

How the eighteen-and-one-halfth hour of a twenty-two hour road trip feels when one has eaten one too many pounds of fudge, and drunk two too many cups of coffee, and dropped 4,925 too many crumbs on, under, and around the steering wheel. And still, somehow, have three-point-five hours to go.

How easy it is to "swing by" Niagara Falls, on the way home. How tiny the kids were, the last time. (Is Zoë eating the pie, or the pie eating Zoë?). How huge, now. And how, even now, they take in the majestic awe of the thing in four minutes, flat.

How Winnie the Pooh is eternal for a reason. And still and all, how that much better it is to read it again, to your smallest Piglet, from your mom's 1926 edition. "Why's there no matching House at Pooh Corner?," they ask. "Because it hadn't been published yet," I answer.

How not to teach a child to fly a kite. (With a lightweight, inexpensive, thin plastic proxy, set aloft on an ocean's fierce winds. Goodbye, kite! Hello, frustration!). And, how to correct your error. (With two sturdy, riptstop, elegant flying aces, picked up from a local kite seller in the know.)

Gratitude for those who recommended Pie and The Magic Thief. Their audio incarnations got us there and back, respectively. Also, for those irrational souls game to repeat the cross-country crazy, two years running.

Fog. All of it. The sight, feel, smell. I do not understand the mechanics of fog, except in the ways that it orchestrates my heartstrings, and seems to exist only on the coasts. And that it has all the perfume and presence and weight of any pitch-perfect piece of ripe fruit.

How to catch a wave. How to receive it, revel in it, ride it, roll with it, then reach for the next. How to situate oneself in that sweet slim spot, just before the swell, just behind the surge. How this precise position is critical, and ephemeral. So far from fixed, it has no coordinates. It changes and morphs with each day, each tide, each and every last wave that rolls in. Five feet to the left, now twelve inches to the right, now toward the horizon, now hasty retreat.

How the best waves come to those who watch, and wait, and workworkwork their position. This way and that, respond, tweak, adjust. How the force of the thing will lift you, as if you're lighter than air, smaller than sand. And really, of course, to the ocean, you are. A humbling, giddy, excellent thing.

How it is to make food in a makeshift kitchen. Underequipped. Barely supplied. Scantily provisioned. In other words, fantastically situated.

Minimalist is nowhere in my nature, but I relish conditional cooking. Of choreographing dinner from a refrigerator's remnants. Of shiny new meals resurrected from dregs. Of feeding vegan and paleo guests. On the same day. From the same menu. Edges inspire. Limits goad. Constraints only underscore the abundance.

Which isn't to say I get all innovative in a rented kitchen. Not hardly. Our Maine greatest meal hits read something like this: boxed mac and cheese, quesadillas, eggs and toast, salami and bread and cheese, repeat. Good local bread. Sturdy salami. Wonderful, local, mark-of-the-maker cheese. (Dear Maine: I heart your cheese!). But still, salamai and bread and cheese. Barebones stuff. Sandy-toed stuff. Need nothing, leave nothing, prep nothing stuff. Fruits and vegetables happen, of course, because these are my most favorite mainstays. But mostly, new carrots, not even peeled, or fresh berries, coiffed in cream. And sometimes, zucchini, skeletal simple, stunningly good.

This began as courgettes in olive oil, which I've been cooking on repeat (along with other Mollies) since Rachel first posted it, last June. It is less a way with zucchini than life, an unequal trade of few inputs for stupendous outcomes. A nice bit of fuzzy math, if you can swing it. Technically, it asks only for zucchini, garlic, ample olive oil, and salt. And—and here's the clincher—discretion, that inscrutable, elusive ingredient, as unavailable for sale in ends-of-earth Maine, as in downtown Manhattan.

Also, as free for the asking.

Because discretion is, of course, merely Greek for attention. To minding one's work, and mending one's ways, and amending one's process to accomodate a day's contours. To add this or subtract that (salt, time, oil, stirs, aromatics, ambitions) to suit the situation. Food that flexes to reality, instead of the other way round. Food for rental kitchens. Food for real life.

The result is zucchini unfashionably khaki, steeped in flavor, inexplicably creamy. It slumps like a teenager at table, soft as an old sofa, and as comforting. I've come to like mine with half a large onion, halved again, slivered, and caramelized alongside. The thin umber strands add a vexing sweetness that tug and pull at the squash's mild side. I also tend to toss the whole garlics back in the pan, mid-braise. The cloves gently steam-caramelize into little gold gems, prizes for the garlic greedy. I also, most often, shower the mess with pecorino, thickly grated. The rich sheepy threads do this fantastic dance with the the zucchini's sweet, the garlic's pungent. It doesn't take much. I swoon.

Today, anyway. Tomorrow, the coordinates will change. The zucchini will instead be summer squash, or their girth broader, or the kitchen my own. The water will crest a little to the East, and I'll follow, and choose milky mozzarella. Or scrape crisp corn over all, or set an olive-oil fried egg alongisde, or pile a heap high on soft buttered polenta, or, perhaps, something else entirely. It's not set in stone. I'll scan the horizon. Consider the landscape. Catch the wave.

Into your largest skillet (12-14" is ideal), glug enough olive oil to cover the surface, 3 tablespoons or thereabouts, and add the whole peeled garlic. Warm over medium heat, allowing the oil to burble but not spit, and the garlic to go from white to pale ivory, five minutes. Remove the garlic, add the onions, zucchini and salt, toss a few times to coat, turn the heat up to medium-high, and cook five minutes. Nestle garlic along the top layer, and continue to cook a good, long while. The whole mess will want for gentle turning, now and again, every five minutes or so. Count on at least 20 minutes of cooking, maybe 40, depending on pan size, coin thickness, heat, the stars, everything. When the onions are caramelly and soft and deep amber, and the zucchini universally, unattractively pale khaki in the center, and bronzed here and there about the edges, you've nailed it.

Take off the heat, set aside to cool briefly, then top the just-warm coins with thickly grated pecorino, to taste. Try to share.

2013.09.11

Folding socks lately, I find I keep confusing my eldest's with my own. Partly, this is because I'm often dull in the sock department, grabbing white crews over spots and stripes. Partly, it's because his shoe size is 9. Height-wise, I've still got a good 7" on him. 7.5", actually. But our socks are already the same size. As are our t-shirts.

Did that half-inch seem nit-picky? He grew a full five inches, last year. Asked for a new, bigger lunchbox, today. Seven more inches isn't much. That last .5 might buy me a month.

My middle came downstairs last night, to tell me he'd been reading eighty minutes. The assignment was forty. The hour was well past ten. But he couldn't help himself. Swept up in a great story, couldn't stop.

I get that. Happened to me, Saturday. But I swear he was all Hop on Pop, just last week.

As I walked to pick up my youngest from her first day of Kindergarten, last month, I found I was, inexplicably, carrying my purse. Apparently, I'd grabbed it on my way out the door, which made as much sense as grabbing an ostrich. I walk to school. I never need a purse. Can't say I've ever grabbed it before. But it seems I'm so accustomed, at pick-up, to having a sidekick, I needed a proxy.

Walking to school alone? Zero experience. But, I am learning.

Mind you, Kindergarten's a three-hour affair. Not even that, when there-and-back's figured in. We still have long mornings to hang and chat and wire circuits and make top hats for sock puppets and host picnics with pine needle hors d'ouvres for pink polka-dotted giraffes. Hallelujah.

At the outset of summer, a week or so in, I looked up and realized that in all my years of parenting—which as of last month, somehow total 13—I'd never had a summer such as this. That my youngest child was a ripe old five years. That in every summer prior, my youngest was, at most, always four.

Uncharted territory, this.

Visions of independence, wide open hours, and tremendous productivity immediately filled me head. To test out this notion, understand the new boundaries, I tried an experiment, one Saturday. After cleaning was finished, I disappeared to my bedroom, picked up a book, and began reading.

In broad daylight.

Without telling a soul.

(A, in this case, stands for 'audacious'.)

I wanted to see just how long it would take before anyone noticed my absence. I could hardly concentrate on the words, so busy was my brain, guessing at numbers. Ten minutes? Twenty? Thirty-five? Maybe I could make my way through a chapter.

One was the answer. (Minute, not chapter.) Sixty small seconds, before the first person found me. Ninety passed, before the second. Apparently, I'm still needed.

Still. All revolutions start small.

(Also? I repeated the experiment, this weekend, and the results were startling. At least a thousand-percentage-point increase. Maybe twice that. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe a miracle.)

And accompanying all this onward and upward, a host of goodbyes, to this life phase's flotsam. Our final two strollers. Nappies not used in years. Big boxes of wipes. Under-sized spoons. Itty-bitty bows. Tricycles. Bath toys. Toy trains. Clothing sizes ending in T. Every last relic of the young years.

The high chairs and cribs left years ago, but somehow, this shift seems more monumental. With all due respect to Aldous Huxley, London ca. 632 After Ford has nothing on post-preschool parenting. In the spirit, then: brave new worlds in the kitchen.

Is cumin brave? Turmeric, mustard seeds? Maybe not any more, not for you. There was a time, some time ago now, when such spices were strangers in my kitchen. When that towering 13-year-old was, say, 3. When I was still learning the dinner ropes. When I'd read a recipe, swoon a little, set out to make it, then stop short, lacking some essential something. Then revert, for the umpteenth time, to noodles, to chicken, to yaaawwwwn. This went on for years, until one day, I officially found myself Fed Up. So I sat down with my stack of unmake-able recipes, pile on the left, paper on the right, and made a list of everything I lacked. Cumin, coriander, sesame oil, mirin, oyster sauce, sake, fish sauce, fermented black beans, garam masala...

Then I got in the car. Set out to a great grocery. And shot half my week's grocery wad on not-food. It totalled, maybe, $50. I've never stopped cheering that impulse trip.

Because what happened that night, and every night after, was the opening of a door, towering and wide. By equipping myself with a few global basics, I'd gained entry to an entire world of food. Suddenly, I was able to turn chickpeas into a bowl worth writing home about. Turn tofu into a top-ten meal. Cauliflower into CAULIFLOWER!!!

A can of beans comes awfully cheap. As does a tub of tofu. I've re-couped that initial throw a thousand-times over. Not to mention eaten royally, ever since. All of which is to say: get your hands on some cumin, turmeric, mustard seeds, and unsweetened coconut. Also, urad dhal, if you can find it. Fork and napkin, if you can't. Either way, there's a feast, dead ahead.

I've been shoveling these South Indian vegetables all summer, rotating different actors through the same script. Grated carrots, diced zucchini, corn kernels, green beans... every last one shines. Then again, maybe I would shine, too, nestled in coconut, glowy with turmeric, freckled with mustard seeds and fried dhal .... I know. I'm sorry. It's hungry-making stuff. *Crack!* Back to business.

The script hails from the wonderful Maya Kaimal, by way of Kerala, where it's known as a thoren, or dry curry. The method is similar to a stir-fry, as is the cook-time: lickity-quick. You get your veg chopped and ready, as well as your seasonings (coconut, spices). Halfway done. Next: into your hot skillet, you add your oil and mustard seeds and dhal. Within moments, they'll brown and pop, whereupon you add onions, to get good and soft. In go your veg, to rub elbows with the heady onions, until the carrots/corn/beans are just-toothsome. And then, like the grand finale that it is, that simple spiced coconut slurry, which finishes the cooking, and flourishes like calligraphy, and floors you when you take a taste. Tip out, tuck in, toss back a heap. Because, behold: vegetable transcendance.

The vegetables cook up sweet, juicy and meaty, brimming with flavor and excellence. The cumin hums along in the background, warm and earthy and elemental. The barely sweet coconut is balanced by cayenne's low, slow burn. The mustard seeds—which are not at all hot, but nutty small splendid pops of crunch—are everywhere, like so many savory sprinkles. The urad dhal (if you can find it; just double the mustard seeds, if you can't) makes for this whole second level of crunch. The all-told is salty, hot, sweet, savory, tender, crunchy, textured, ridiculous. Serious bang for maybe three bucks.

It is easy, for me, anyway, to forget just what a vegetable can do. What it's capable of. What chameleon ways it holds. To get caught in the rut of raw carrots and raw cukes and the raw red peppers my littles mediums prefer. To fail to appreciate a vegetable's full potential, to not just fill up, but absolutely delight. To understand all the ways a vegetable can be a meal's alpha and omega and exclamation point. A tickle-you-down-to-your-toes kind of meal. A slaphappy, chin-drippy, thirds-please meal. A meal made possible by a plain bag of carrots, plus a spice drawer that leads, like certain wardrobes, magically, into some brave new world.

Kaimal's recipe was written for carrots, but I've applied it to green beans, yard long beans, zucchini, summer squash, and corn, all to excellent effect. To adapt, simply keep in mind that pieces should be small (grate carrots; remove corn kernels; cut squash and beans into 1/2" dice), and water and cooking time adjusted, according to the vegetable. Slightly drier green beans and carrots will take a splash more water and a few extra minutes. Corn and (watery) zucchini will require less of both. Whatever the veg, stir and taste and remove from heat when just tender.

Unsweetened, finely shredded coconut—found in the bulk section, or as 'macaroon coconut' in the baking aisle—is what you want here. I've omitted the 10-12 curry leaves Kamal calls for, as I'm out, but do toss them in if you've a stash in your freezer. Urad Dhal (split; black or hulled white) is available at supermarkets with well-stocked Indian sections; some bulk bins (try Whole Foods); all Indian markets; and here and here. Whole brown mustard seeds are found in most spice aisles; bulk bins; or here. If you can't locate urad dhal, double the mustard seeds to 2 Tbs.

Coarsely grate carrots, using a box grater or food processor. Set aside. Dice onions. Set aside. In a small bowl, place coconut, cumin, cayenne and turmeric, then add 1/4 cup of water; stir gently to combine. Set aside.

In a wok or wide skillet with a large lid, heat oil over medium-high heat. When oil shimmers, add mustard seeds and urad dhal, and cover. When seeds pop, in 1-2 minutes, add curry leaves, if using. Stir. When the urad dhal goes light brown, 1-2 minutes more, add onion, stir to coat with oil and spices, and fry until translucent and going gold in spots, 5-7 minutes. Adjust heat if needed to keep from burning.

Add the grated carrots and salt, stir to coat with onions and spices, and cook over medium-high heat, several minutes, until carrots are barely cooked but still have a bit of bite. Add coconut-water mixture, stir to combine, and cook all for another 2-3 minutes, until carrots are tender but a bit toothsome, water has cooked away, and flavors have married. Don't abandon your post. From carrots to done is five minutes, maybe six. Check salt, heat, and seasonings, and adjust to taste, stirring to combine. Eat immediately.

2013.07.31

Sunday night found me wedged in a door frame, balancing a desk twice my size, with no means of escape.

It was Hour Three or maybe Seven of a full-on effort to move Zoë's bedroom, a project long-discussed and long-postponed. At one year and twenty pounds when we moved to Ohio, Zoë handily won our home's smallest space, a slender sliver of a room which, owing to a lack of closet, doesn't even qualify for the prefix bed-. But it had length enough to fit a crib, cheek-to-jowel with a dresser, like two Brooklyn brownstones, with space to spare for a light switch above and a tiny trash can below. Barely.

Breadth is another question.

At 80" across, it just fits one flat me, so long as I keep my arms close to my side. Also, the roof slopes at a steep angle, the jaunty sort real estate pros call charming. It really is charming, and cozy besides, with its 32" aisle for adults to walk upright. 32" shared by a bed, and a dresser, and that trash can. Also, a small armada of stuffed friends. Call it 12". For years, I've called it, fondly, a shoebox. Problem is, the shoe keeps growing.

At 5 1/2, Zoë's crib's long gone, and the toddler bed, picked up to buy time, looks more like Ned's bed with each passing day. It was time.

So yesterday we heaved and hauled and schlepped and shoved and generally made chaos as we emptied the (former) office into the (very narrow) hall, clearing the way for Zoë's new room. (The office small, also, but less small than the shoebox.) And everything was coming along swimmingly (if claustrophobically), until I went to move the desk. Which arched its wooden eyebrows, dug in its pine heels, and announced it wouldn't be exiting any pre-WWII doors anytime soon.

I coaxed. I cajoled. I angled every which way. It wouldn't budge. Nor, for an awkward moment, would I.

Defeated, I winkled my way back into the wreckage, sighed a ragged sigh, and got to work. Me, my Phillips head, and thirty-two screws, holding fast to those four balky, bulky desk legs.

It wasn't so bad, as I knew it wouldn't be, once I finally set out to dismantle the thing. Half an hour later, I was back in the door jamb, tilting, adjusting, m-a-n-e-u-v-e-r-i-n-g my way through. We made it, this time, the desk top and I. Barely. But through. Then I walked the three short feet across hall, and assembled the desk all over again.

Twenty-four hours earlier, Saturday, I'd found myself cussing out the sun. Well, not cussing, exactly; life's too short for such stout wizened words. But stating, repeatedly, in an elevated voice, "I hate summer. HATE IT. Hate hate hate it!" There might have been fist-shaking involved. Blushing, definitely. I counsel my children often against the H- word.

Naturally, I had an audience.

Sigh.

For what it's worth, it was two big white welts on Henry's cheek that led to my outburst. We'd just doused him in mosquito spray, having learned our lesson earlier in the week, when he'd logged seventeen bites between neckline and hairline. Seventeen. Not counting arms and legs. And he's not even my most-nibbled child.

I was peeved. I railed.

Still.

Summer's my Winter. I know this about myself. I write long, pixillated post-its to remind me. And yet every year, right around now, I find myself flattened by it all. The screamy sun, the too-bright sky, the mosquito armies that make outside feel ominous. Like stepping out deserves its own John Williams soundtrack. I crack. I lose it. And then I laugh.

I mean, who screams at summer? That's like chewing out the Easter Bunny.

Sometimes you go to walk through a door, slam-dunk, easy-peasy, and you cannot. Jamb's too narrow. Desk's too big. Summer's just its same old self. You have to back up, examine the angles, contemplate alternate routes, compromise. You fold up the world, first this way, then that, origami reality into feasability. You part things out. Adjust. Dismantle. Remove screws or expectations, as appropriate. And on your second pass, or maybe your seventeenth, you negotiate the corners and though tight, they are possible, and you are through.

That was my more measured reflection, anyway, as I sat sprawled on the floor, setting desk legs back to rights. It took a full day, and some snipping of flowers, and a skeeter-beating bicycle ride, and soup. Clarity rarely comes on demand. But by Sunday, I could see it. The soup helped.

This soup, this homely magisterial zucchini soup, is the stuff happy minds and Mollies are made of. When the weather dipped into pleasant last week—high seventies, rain, faultless, really, despite my stubbornly gripey self—I wasted no time in pulling out the soup pot. Because soup is my solace. And solace aids corner vision.

This soup is a mash-up of memory and recipe, one part childhood summer, one part non-existant Italian heritage.

My mom made, most years, a late summer soup of tomato cooked down with great heaps of zucchini. I remember loving it, perhaps owing to the generous spoonfuls of sour cream we dolloped on top. I don't have her recipe, for I'm sure there wasn't one, save the urgent need to transform the garden's glut, somehow, into supper. My own need is pure appetite; my plants baroque, but barren. (Darn chipmunks.) So each week I fetch pounds of green logs from the market, most of which wind up here.

It is hard to overstate the simplicity of this soup, or the expansive deliciousness, or the possibilities. It's a straightforward matter of aromatics—onions, garlic, parsley—softened in olive oil, then subsumed by tinned tomatoes and three (!) pounds' chopped zucchini. Broth is added to loosen things up, plus parmesan rinds, for rumbly savor. Thirty minutes of simmer, The End. Accustomed as I am to long drawn-out soups, it's almost anti-climactic.

Until you taste it.

There's a lovely rich roundness, thanks to the olive oil, a full third-cup, and don't think about skimping. Italians, I've learned, aren't shy in these matters, a habit especially suited to soup. The oil ferries the aromatics' flavors about, indoctrinating every vegetable in sight. The parmesan rinds follow suit, adding their own nutty, saline smack. Both almost emulsify with the broth, lending the stuff a tremendous swagger.

Gutsy results from humble inputs: I love that in a soup.

Also, this: the way this soup honors zucchini. So much zucchini cookery—mine, included—is about reducing squash to its smallest self. I'm on that train; I appreciate that talent. I don't, though, want to miss its many others. When you simmer zucchini in a simple broth, both sides benefit, win-win. The famously water-rich veg releases its ample juices, lending the broth a distinct sweet. Meanwhile, the spoon-size green nubbins go tender, then soft, then beyond, to a state sometimes called melting. They also go old-camo ugly. No matter. They taste sublime.

And this: I love the soup's second day, and better, the third, and you get the picture. Because when you warm it again on the stove, the broth reduces, the solids slump, the parmesan rinds slough off golden nuggets, and the the whole veers more toward stewy each day. The first, thin, soupy day is good. The fourth, thick, intense day is majestic.

And finally, this: the versatility. This soup is that favorite pair of jeans, the ones that not only fit but flatter, that not only advertise comfort but mean it, that go as well with that ratty old sweatshirt as that excellent thrifted Tahari. Gorgeously flexible. Scatter over chickpeas, or thick curls of parmesan, or bright parsley, or all of the above. Bits of brown rice, chewy, softly sweet, are pretty wonderful. Pesto—spinach, basil—a hefty splodge, stirred loosely in, satisfies completely. Whole milk yogurt plus flaked almonds are unexpected, and fantastic. One night, we boiled small cubes of potato, and sizzled up one minced fenneled sausage, and topped the bowl with a spoonful of each. That was almost unspeakably good. I suspect we've only just scratched the surface.

Summer's still got wind in her sails, and it may not be soup weather, yet, where you are. But zucchini's a stalwart, here for months, still, and Fall is just around the corner. A little something, then, to negotiate whatever corners may come your way.

As is my habit, I plonked several generous parmesan rinds into the pot. As is their habit, they seeped their gorgeous salty-parmesan-umami into the broth. I highly recommend them. As to broth, I also highly recommend the cooking water from beans, if you're inclined to cook beans from scratch. I happened to have a pot of chickpeas on the stove the same day I first made this soup, and drained the bean broth right into the soup pot (win-win!). Bean broth has a fantastic flavor, sweet, earthy, salty, savory, and from the beans, some body and backbone. You can (and I do) freeze bean broth, since I rarely have the foresight to prepare both on the same day. Finally, my mom's soup used grated zucchini, a variation I intend to try. It was outstanding.

In a large heavy pot, such as a dutch oven, heat oil over medium heat until it shimmers. Add minced onion, and cook until translucent, stirring occasionally, 5 minutes. Adjust heat if needed to keep it from coloring. Add garlic and parsley, stir, and cook until fragrant, 2 minutes. Raise the heat to high and add the zucchini. Cook 1-2 minutes, stirring regularly, coating well with the oil and aromatics. Add tomatoes, broth, parmesan rinds, and plenty of salt and pepper, stir to loosen solids, and bring to a simmer. Reduce heat to low, cover pot, and stir occassionally, 25-30 minutes, until zucchini are meltingly tender but still maintain their shape. Taste. Adjust salt and pepper until the soup sings, deep and rich and savory, and add a splosh of vinegar for brightness, if desired.

Serve, topped any of the above toppings, or nothing at all, save a broad spoon and hungry belly.

(Reheats, for the record, beautifully. And keeps in the fridge for 4-5 days with equal grace.)

2013.06.12

One morning, several weeks back, a friend asked whether I was looking forward to summer. We were returning from the morning school run, she making kind conversation, me and my youngest still hand in hand. I can't remember my precise words, but they mattered little, next to my tone which, were I giving myself the gauzy benefit of hindsight, was not exactly, shall we say, sunny.

Not exactly even civil.

So okay, it sat somewhere between a spit and a tooth-baring snarl. With a side of growl. And a double-dose of grimace. All well before 8:30 a.m. And this, to one of the best, gentlest people I know.

(I said sorry.)

What can I say. It was Madame Heat speaking. She's bossy like that, all elbows, yelly. I let Her shove me aside, that morning, before I could squeeze a word in edgewise.

Move over, Dragonlady. My turn.

Summer? Bring it on.

Because, beyond my knee-jerk kvetching, summer days are among those I most relish. These are the days I re-meet my peeps, after a schoolyear spent much apart. There they are, entirely their same selves, and yet. Not. Bigger. Richer. Better. Like a long-awaited sequel in an excellent series, utterly familiar, thrillingly new.

I am loving the first pages, looking forward to full chapters.

I'm looking forward to late afternoon, to its unusually easy slow tempo, not hustled and bustled and harried from school. To unhurried breakfasts, eaten at leisure, no clocks to watch, no place to be.

To time for games, Candyland to Catan, one on one; rounds of three; the always-interesting all-play.

(We just celebrated our 18th [!] this Sunday, and twice that, again, is excellent by me. But I'm hopeless when it comes to books. Commit to just one? Pfft. Fat chance.)

Oh, also, Mary Poppins in the car. Not the candy-coated Julie Andrews incarnation, prim, yes, but essentially warm. No, the fierce P. L. Travers original, vain, brusque, often terrifying, far more free with a scornful sniff than a smile. She who makes butchers wish, at a glance, to disappear through a trapdoor post-haste. She who has friends like Old Mrs. Corry, who snaps off her own fingers to feed to young babes, and learned gingerbread from Alfred the Great, and glitters with such wizened, wiry-haired splendor, it's little wonder they couldn't cast her for the screen.

We are all loving errands.

I'm absolutely looking forward, for the first time, again, to letters magicking themselves into words. To hearing a brand new reader read to me. To that glittery lightbulb, bright as June, plain as day, that flicks on when one more rune becomes PARK, and MAKE, and GO DOG GO, and endless other irridescent, irreversible things.

We are still at that tremulous stage, more words unknown than known, eyes wide, confidence shaky. But they're yours now, I say, calm as I can. Yours forever, those words. For keeps. Imagine.

I'm looking forward to checking off a little learning of my own. Memorizing the state capitals, say. My school totally covered them in the fifth grade.

I skipped fifth grade.

It's about time.

I was looking forward to solving the Eni, but finallyfinallyfinally set things right, Sunday morning. It took months—off and on, mind. Now, I'm itching to scramble it, again. And if I don't exactly look forward to squabbles, which range from occasional to omnipresent, I appreciate* the time to mine roots and causes, excavate motivations, disentangle misunderstandings.

*Typically after 10 p.m., when all eyes are closed, all faces angelic, and nine hours of quiet all but guaranteed. In the moment? Appreciate's not quite the right verb.

To flowers. I am looking forward to flowers. The heat, the humidity, they love it so.

And I love them for their conversion factor, for turning so graciously swelter to wonder.

And cooking together, an unexpected surprise, not always their schtick, but so far, very much so. They pitched within days the pasta project. ("To celebrate the new Third Grader!" Indeed.) I'm always game to remodel the kitchen as armageddon, for the little lessons that accrue around a cutting board, green bean math, estimation, the quiet art of paying keen attention. Three sets of ten digits, still present and accounted for. And lunch, to boot! (Never mind the floor.)

And tomatoes. Definitely tomatoes, and cucumbers and eggplant and endless zucchini. I am alwaysokay with endlesszucchini. But I am now especially okay, and especially antsy, knowing its affinity for spinach pesto. And my affinity for the two together, tangled up in a jade-green, slurp-worthy heap.

The soul of this dish stems directly from my friend Shauna'slatest, loveliest book. If you haven't had a look, not being gluten-free, bear in mind, neither are we. I bake two gluten-filled loaves every week. The pasta, up and down, is all eggs and wheat flour. Indeed, Shauna's audience is limited: to those love flavor, and food that sings, and meals that thrum, and words, laughter, life. My copy looks like a porcupine. A porcupine that, at a glance, rolls over and opens to page 178.

I don't know how often, this past month, I've made Shauna's Zucchini Noodles with Spinach Pesto. I do know I've lost count, always a good sign. This one's a marvel, a classic, a keeper.

The spinach pesto is straight-off-the-spoon stuff, excellent here and everywhere. Less pungent than its basil-based cousin, it is clean, bright, deceptively smooth. Which isn't to say mild-mannered, what with its kick of garlic, jigger of lemon, and heady parmesan-umami. I've taken to stirring it through scrambled eggs, and dipping in carrots, and cukes, and red peppers. Tonight, I demolished an entire fennel bulb, dipping wedge after wedge into the jade slurry. Pretty much the only thing I've ruled out is dressing plain old wheat pasta with it.

See, I had a batch of spinach pesto on hand when Shauna's book arrived. I'd made Mad Hungry's spaghetti with spinach pesto and ... didn't love it. The pesto was terrific, addictive, even, but stirred into noodles? Meh. It sighed, and faded, and I don't know, just fell inexplicably flat. It was sad. As was I. Until I spied Shauna's green-on-green ribbons.

Now, I don't ordinarily do bunny-eared noodles, vegetal "spaghetti", say, aswim in marinara, unmistakably squash. This is not that. Not even close.

This is zucchini, sized up and considered, made smart and suave and totally more-ish. "Sliced" with a peeler, the work of a moment, zucchini shows an entirely new side. The just-tender ribbons—I like mine barely steamed—are slender and silky and ridiculously fun. The spinach pesto, far from going dim, lights up in the company of zen zucchini. The latter's sweet meat complements the plucky green balm, terrifically. Sweet peas—I add peas, fresh or frozen—add welcome nubs of crisp pop. And pine nuts—just prep extra when making the pesto—scattered on top add toast and crunch.

So yes, there is summer at its worst, broiling sun, bugs, unspeakable stick. Cross will happen. Forgiveness, asked after. But in the company of my favorite people, and bottomless bowls of lip-smacking green? I shake my fist at the nasty bits, dig in my heels, and look forward to the rest. Which, frankly, looks awfully fine.

Zucchini Ribbons with Spinach Pesto, Peas + Pine Nutsadapted from Gluten-Free Girl Every Day, by Shauna James Ahern and Danny AhernI use a Y-peeler here, which delivers wide ribbons; a regular peeler works equally well. As written, I consider this a generous lunch for one; double or triple the zucchini, peas and pine nuts, to serve more; you will have enough pesto for 6-8 zucchini. Alternatively, refrigerate the extra pesto, and you're five minutes from a feast, several days running.

The pesto below is based on Lucinda Scala Quinn's, as that's what I had on hand. I have no doubt Shauna's original is excellent, as is her suggestion to top the whole with crumbled feta and sunflower seeds. (She also leaves the zucchini raw, which I suspect I'll find brilliant, right around late July.) I like my pesto heavy on the spinach and lemon. Begin with the low end of the range, and add more of either/both at the end, to taste. Similarly, toasted walnuts or almonds can be used in the pesto, in place of the pine nuts. I can imagine a little mint here. Pesto's endlessly forgiving.

Make the pesto: Place spinach in the bowl of a food processor, fitted with a metal blade, and pulse 15-20 times to chop coarsely. Add pine nuts, garlic, cheese, lemon juice, and salt, and blitz 1-2 minutes, until solids are very fine. With machine running, drizzle in olive oil through feed tube, pausing to scrape and stir on occasion, until pesto is unctuous, irresistable and creamy. Taste for seasoning, and adjust salt, spinach and/or lemon to suit, bearing in mind zucchini will be mild, not as salty as pasta cooked in highly seasoned water. Give a final blitz, and set aside.

Prepare zucchini: Wash, top and tail your zukes. Holding a zucchini in your left hand, run a vegetable peeler from the top to the bottom, removing a long thin ribbon of veg. Repeat until you can peel no more, then flip, place flat-side down on cutting board, and continue to peel opposite side, until you can peel no more. I can usually ribbon around three-quarters of each veg. (I simply lay the remainder flat, slice thinly with a chef's knife, and add these first to the pot. Alternatively, save for soups, salads, or eggs.) Repeat with remaining zucchini.

Add 1/2" water and 1 teaspoon kosher salt to a medium saucepan, and bring to a rolling simmer. Place zucchini ribbons inside, beginning with hand-cut remainders, if using (they will be thicker, and placing them closer to the heat will enable them to cook in the same time as the thinner ribbons, up top), and placing peas on top. Slap on a lid, turn heat down to a gentle simmer, and cook 2 minutes, or until just-translucent. Do not overcook. Drain zucchini and peas into a strainer, shaking gently but well, and allow to drain 5 minutes more, shaking a few times, to remove all water. Return warm veg to pot, add several generous spoonfuls (around 1/2 cup) of spinach pesto, toss to coat amply, and taste. Add more if desired, stir again, tip onto a plate, and top with toasted pine nuts. Enjoy warm or hot.

2012.10.10

These pants (and the next, and the next after that; it's been a week of pants around here) have all kinds of, em, idiosyncrasies. Which is sewing-speak for questionable technique. Double hems, where I forgot I'd added inches. Seams that don't seem to want to meet up. Cuffs that vary in width, front to back. And side to side. And inch to inch. Waistbands that involve a serious change in elevation, higher at the sides, lower in the center. I still can't figure out why this wants to happen. Only that it isn't me. The waistband wills it to be so.

Whatever you do, don't turn them inside out.

Not that you could.

They're moving too fast.

Because, for all their (shall we say) irregularities, they do check one simple box. The pants work. This cannot be said of all pants. Particularly pants for young-ish girls.

Why are young-ish girl pants so problematic? So fashion-forward, so function-backward? Since when did flare legs, tight on top, trippy at the bottom, make for great fun on the tumbling mat? And how exactly does that darling daisy button at the waist, awful even for strong adult fingers to fasten, aid a young kiddo bent on independence? And explain to me, EXPLAIN TO ME, how skinny jeans make sense for the preschool set??

We got fed up, Zoë and I.

We got mad. And then we made pants. (Albeit idiosyncratic pants.) Pants that are long on comfort, and big on ease of use, and entirely devoid of frippery. Pants that can be pulled on in a jif, and changed in a wink, and worn anywhere, everywhere. I'm sure she would appreciate a pocket. I've no doubt she would love a sweet detail. Button trees. Embroidered bunnies. Appliquéd roses. Alas, I am still stuck in seam allowance territory. Such is sewing when it takes three tries to simply not stitch the legs together. Such are pants when your PR is that your finished garment survives its first wash. Intact.

(It is not that she doesn't like cute; she does. She loves the unicorns and the flowers and the twinkles. Babies, big eyes, anything tiny. She loves the suite of seven she received on her third birthday from a friend who correctly assessed she was seriously wanting in the princess department. She just wants to be able to get down, on the ground, and get those princesses lined up right, you know?)

Cute, then. But accomodating cute. Cute that enables running and jumping, sweeping and climbing, hula-hooping and apple-peeling. Cute that isn't bothered by piglet-cooing or turkey-viewing, corn-grinding or pine-needle-kicking. Cute that has no comment when it's time to flop, *PLOP*, flat on the floor, to draw a turtle or build a kingdom or fill in the [free-spirited/when-the-spirit-catches-you/idea-of-the-moment] blank. Unconstrained, unencumbered, unbounded cute. Cute that takes into account play, that basic work of childhood.

I think the word is comfortable.

That's this week's work, cutting out comfortable. A job I intend to get back to, post-haste. Right after we discuss stuffed zucchini.

I know, I know, it's butternut season, and the zucchini's all but done. I intended to get to it sooner, truly, it's just that my head was bent over my Bernina. But just to be sure, I checked the market last weekend, and by golly if summer wasn't still hanging on. (I offer, as evidence, exhibit A below. Turns out tomatoes are excellent pattern paperweights.) It won't be long now, but you might squeak a batch. And if not, know I use this same formula for peppers, which are fairly reliable the year round. Know, also, I've been tweaking and testing and refining this for the better part of ten years. Like a length of Liberty, it's a real keeper; just tuck it into your stash.

If I sound like I'm procrastinating, I am; I wasn't kidding about not examining this one up close. Were it a face, this dish would be deemed one which "only a mother could love." Rugged, maybe. Rustic, possibly. A radioface, definitely. Certainly not a head-turner.

That's okay. Stuffed zucchini may not be a looker, but done right, it's one one heckuva keeper.

I want to plumb that "done right" bit a moment, because therein lies the difference between bland watery awful, and a dinner with substance and savor to spare. Zucchini is what I think of as neutral food, like tofu and chicken breasts and eggplant. Neutral is not bad; neutral is latent, waiting, potential, a wide open stage on which to dance. Too often, zucchini is stuffed because it can be, because would you LOOK at that perfect boat shape? Or because it must be (see: legendary glut). Or because everyone else is (bridge-jumpers, unite!). Might as well stuff a penny loafer, and move on to real food.

Here, however, is good reason to stuff zucchini, or pattypan, or those funny little roly-poly cannonballs: because their neutral-ness equals opportunity, sweet tender foil for a wild riot of a filling. Mild-mannered has no place, inside squash. Only bold and bright need apply.

Let's get detailed: You want aromatics, by which I mean onion, sautéed until golden and almost all gone. You want cooked grains, from last night or the freezer, slowly coated in onion-y oil. Brown rice is my favorite, for its bounce and chew, but farro or barley are also grand. White rice, only if you must. You may or may not want a bit of ground beef, but I do, for its depth, warmth and oomph. (If you do not, chickpeas, toasted pine nuts and extra cheese make for a pretty fine substitute.) You definitely want tomatoes, cooked down until jammy, plus the squash detritus left over from the hollowing. You most definitely want to add each of these when, and only when, its predecessor has been absorbed, building strata of intense, concentrated flavor. Think layering. Just like fall. Season as you go. Taste as you go. And then, remember the most important part:

Add fresh herbs. Lots of fresh herbs. Herbs by the fistful, the handful, the cup-full. Herbs enough to raise even Yotam's eyebrows. Think greens, instead of garnish, when imagining the quantity. Oodles and oodles of fresh green herbs. Parsley, basil, mint, chives, thyme. At least two. All four is fine. The main thing is you want their vim, their flash and dazzle, invigorating the whole. They cook down, and mellow, but only to a point, key to the mild shell's counterpoint.

About those shells, those original zucchini: they don't ask much, just smart salting and slow baking. Dust each scraped squash generously with salt, remembering this is the end of their seasoning, and commit to a slow, patient hour in the oven, which has the most magnificent effect on squash. Zucchini and its brethern, baked low and slow, cook, yes, but also transform. They become, in an hour, sweeter, and tender, so tender they can be eaten with a spoon. So tender the word melting comes to mind. So tender, you might even forgive, or at least fork right past, their homely countenance.

Stuffed Zucchiniadapted over a lifetime of zucchini love

The slow building of flavors is inviolate, here. The ingredient list is not. This works just as well for peppers as zucchini, mincing the caps (instead of zucchini innards) to flesh out the filling. Similarly, I'll often swap ground lamb for the beef, and trade in two cups of fresh mint for the basil. Use feta, if you go this route. Use your imagination, and travel others.

Slice stem plus just enough top (1/4-1/3) to create an opening from small squash, or halve baseball bat, if using. Set tops aside. With a small strong spoon, scoop soft insides from squash, leaving a 1/2" rim on all sides. Set insides aside, with stems. If using a grand zucchini, leave a 1" rim. Settle your squash into a baking dish that fits them comfortably, but without too much room to rattle around. A 9x13" casserole works nicely. Sprinkle the teaspoon of salt evenly over all.

In a large, wide skillet, over a hottish medium, heat olive oil until shimmering. Tip in the diced onion, plus two pinches of salt, and sauté, stirring occasionally, until translucent, 8-10 minutes.

While the onion is cooking, take your zucchini scraps, and chop-chop-chop them to a fine dice. I use the tops as well, trimmed of their actual stems. If using an enormous, elder statesman zucchini, discard the thready core and large, tough seeds, and chop the surrounding solid flesh. Set chopped squash aside.

Add ground beef or lamb, stir well to coat, and cook, stirring occasionally, until cooked through and browning in spots, 10 minutes. When meat is cooked, spoon off much of the fat, leaving 2 tablespoons to finish off the filling. Add leftover rice (or other grain) to the skillet, and stir, cooking, 2-3 minutes. Add 1 teaspoon salt, chopped zucchini flesh, and diced pepper, if using, and cook 8-12 minutes, until zucchini has released its water and cooked down and consolidated itself. Add the chopped tomato, stir to coat, and cook 10-12 minutes, until the juices have been absorbed and tomatoes have relaxed, darkening and melting a bit into the rice and veg.

Taste your filling: is it well-seasoned? There are no herbs, so it won't be bright, but it should be deeply savory and round and a touch jammy. Seasoning the filling is essential, as the shells depend on it to carry the flavor. Add enough salt and pepper to make your filling deeply more-ish, then a pinch or two more, to lend to the shells.

Add your thyme leaves, and stir to combine. Add your chopped leafy herbs (basil, parsley, mint, if using), and stir to combine. Take the skillet off the heat, taste one last time, and adjust seasoning, as needed.

Scoop filling into shells, making a nice rounded heap, and apply a good smattering of sharp cheddar to each. Add a splash of water to the pan, a few tablespoons, to give a steamy start. Any leftover filling can be tucked into a stray pepper, or baked in a small ramekin, or eaten as is. Cover baking pan with foil that is tented slightly, so as not to muddle with the cheese, and place in the preheated oven.

Bake at 350° for 45 minutes-60 minutes, until squash shells are completely soft and tender to the knife-tip. Time will vary depending on squash size; I have had baseball bats take close to 90 minutes. When squash is fully tender, remove foil from top, turn heat to 425°, and bake another 10-15 minutes, until cheese goes golden and bubbly on top. Let cool slightly, 10 minutes, and eat.

These re-heat exceptionally well. I've also been known to freeze a tray or three.

****

Sewing Tidbits: The lovely Meg, at Elsie Marley, is hosting her semi-annual Kids' Clothing Week Challenge this week. My pants production actually began late last week, and came about independently, to fill gaps in a certain someone's wardrobe. But given the serendipity, and a stash of gorgeous cottons from my mum, I'm taking KCWC as the kick in the pants it is to see if we can also dope out a top. We will see.

The pants are all cut from one pattern, which hails from this book, which mostly contains clothes I can't actually imagine sewing. Or wearing. But the pants pattern is exquisitely simple, and the directions, very clear, and for that, I consider it priceless